


Emblem of Ensanguined Emotions

by Dramione4eva



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Death, Creepy, Dark, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:07:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27667922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dramione4eva/pseuds/Dramione4eva
Summary: "Scars are stories; history written on the body"
Kudos: 3





	Emblem of Ensanguined Emotions

It is said, that behind every scar, there is an untold story of survival. But it is not so for me, no, it is not so at all. For my scars, they are not mine, not in the least. I noticed it three years ago. 

I had been walking down the road with my best friend, when I first saw him. The man in the white shirt, walking by. As soon as I did, I felt a searing pain across my abdomen, so strong it caused me to double over. The action pulled my shirt away from the front of my torso, and looking down, I saw a large white….it could only be called a scar. I was bewildered. Two hours later, I saw the man again. On the news. He had been in a hit-and-run accident, and part of the metallic body of the car had punched right through his abdomen. At first, I shrugged it off as a mere coincidence, but it happened again. And again. And again. When I saw people, the scars bloomed across my skin. And they died. Every time. None of them ever survived. 

So, you see, the scars I bear are not testaments of my survival, no; they are the premonitions of death. Others’ death. Some might say that my scars are not a curse, not if I use them for the good. Not if I warn people of their imminent death. But I have never been one to meddle in others’ affairs, and I was certainly not going to meddle with fate. It has become a sort of a game, trying to guess how long a person will live after their scars mar my skin, how long they will survive. No, not mar. These scars are an adornment, tattoos that tell a story. 

I stand up and walk over to my dresser – and pain sears across my neck. A loud crash sounds downstairs, but I am still as the blood drains away from my face, and my eyes follow the neat slit of the scar across my throat. In the mirror, across the throat of my white - faced reflection.


End file.
